Safety
by hairnorhide
Summary: Harry arrives at Grimmauld Place scared & worn down, with little memory of his summer after the Dementors' attack. Sirius sees his godson in a new light, & begins to take his guardianship more seriously. / AU from the beginning of OotP / sick!Harry throughout / abuse / whumpage / feat. Snape, Draco, Fred, George, and some much darker twists than we saw in the books.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own 'Harry Potter'._

**Chapter One:  
**  
He hears voices for a long time. Whispers and half-words. Rumblings - disjointed syllables. Sometimes, it's as though he is laying at the bottom of a warm bath, eavesdropping through thin walls. Often, the sounds seem vast and far away; echoes from the other end of a long, long tunnel. The soft lilt of comforting words remains confusing; his consciousness a heavy fog, struggling to make sense of the clamour.

_"Harry... oh, Harry... Si- I don't thin... why... this taking so-"  
_  
Time is divided into the very fast and the very slow. How long has it been since he first felt the soft, downy comfort of a foreign mattress beneath him? He couldn't say. Couldn't think. Thoughts thick and cloying, he can't pierce through the haze long enough to make sense of it.

_"You're alr... oh, dear - seizing - call..."_

Awareness ebbs and flows like the sea, everywhere and all at once, and then - darkness. A blanket encompassing everything that is his sight and his lungs until he can't breathe - and yet, somehow, manages to surface.

_"He's... is h... Harry? Can you hear... Quick! ... 'mione, go get..."_

Slowly, be it days or weeks or eternities since he's been in somebody else's bed, he begins to drag his way out of the dark; the diffusion of sleep marked by a ringing in both ears that has him simultaneously alert and afraid. It's been so long since he has been aware of any specific feeling. His body is foreign - skin too tight, limbs loose and almost liquid.

_"Harry, dear? I know you mus... terribly afraid... it's o..."_

The first signs of light tell him that he must have opened his eyes, but his head is sluggish and not-quite-there, the air in front of his face dazzling and _toobrighttoobrighttoobright_. His lips part like old parchment, and a quiet, breath of a moan is all he can manage, until he is almost ready to give in and burrow back into the dark.

And then, a different voice. Familiar and coarse, and like a leaky tap memories begin to trickle through his muddled brain. A warm hand on the nape of his neck, large birds arriving with hastily scrawled letters. Grey eyes.

_"What's going... Harry? Har... Is he...? Harry, it's me... it's Si... can you...?"_

He blinks, and is conscious of blinking. With that, awareness crashes into him quickly. He would have shot upwards, were it not for the heaviness of his body. Instead, he moans again, shying away when the sliver of vision he has is overcome by a dark, shadowy figure.

"Harry? Look at me, Harry, you're alright, it's me, it's - "

"Sirius, he can't see, he needs - here!"

The sounds of movement, _his head is spinning_, and then somebody pushes something metal over his eyes and the blurry shape in front of him begins to take a more solid form. With trembling, unsteady fingers Harry reaches up to straighten his glasses, and looks into the worried eyes of his godfather.

"Si - " he coughs, mouth impossibly dry, tongue thick and out of practice. He must have slept for a very long time. "S-Sirius?"

The man in front of him looks like he hasn't rested in days, dark smudges beneath pale eyes. He is perched on the edge of the bed, staring intently; worried. The world slides in and out of focus, and Harry raises his palm to his forehead, willing everything to stop and just, _make sense._

"H... how?" he tries, after a beat, mindful of the pillows propped behind his back that are the only things keeping him sitting even slightly upright. "Where...?"

The words won't come as he wants them to, speech stuttered and fragmented. He is having trouble connecting anything, including mind to body. Vaguely, he wonders if he has ingested something, been slipped some kind of sinister potion, but the thought trails idly away like smoke, until he realises Sirius is talking and scrambles to catch up.

"... the swelling, we didn't know if you'd... well, how are you feeling, at any rate? You must be thirsty - Molly, can you...?"

He has turned to look at somebody hovering beside the bed, and with a great deal of effort Harry tracks the movement. Mrs. Weasley is pouring water from a pitcher on a small table, dabbing at teary eyes, and he feels a pang of guilt. He doesn't know what he's done to end up here, but he knows he doesn't want to see her crying.

"There you go, dear," she says softly, moving to stand beside Sirius. She begins to hand Harry the glass. He tries, really tries, but moving his arm is a strain he could not have imagined - weak fingers struggle to find purchase on the smooth surface, uncoordinated, and his godfather takes over while he looks down, shameful of something he doesn't understand.

"Here, Harry," Sirius leans forwards, holding the water to his dry lips. "Take it easy, you've been asleep for quite some time. No need to rush yourself, hmm?"

After greedily slurping as much liquid as he can, Harry moves his face away, letting out a small sigh. He looks up, wishes the room wouldn't move back and forth so much, and makes another attempt at speech.

"I - I don't..." he darts a look nervously between the two adults, stomach somersaulting a little at the action. "How - how... long? W-what...?"

He doesn't notice the uneasy look they share, only now blinking at his unfamiliar surroundings. The room is small, what looks to be a guest bedroom, in a house he does not recognise. A dresser, an empty portrait, the bed and adjoining table are the only objects he can see. The wallpaper is peeling at the edges, but if he focuses on that for too long his mind grows stagnant and muddy.

"Harry?" Sirius begins, drawing his wandering attention back to the conversation. He is leaning forward, one hand on the blankets where Harry's knee rests beneath. "What do you remember?"

"Huh...?" his brows furrow, and he looks into the face of the man who should be his guardian, struggling. "I, uh... I - I don't... where... how l-long?"

He frowns. Everything is hard. _Thinking _is hard, and he feels like a toddler learning speech for the first time. His mind is leaking absent thoughts in every direction and it's as though he has to keep pushing them together. For the first time, he feels fear.

Sirius' face is paling, and he shares a barely-noticeable look of concern with Mrs. Weasley before trying to coax Harry into talking again. She stays quiet, directing her gaze at the bed, eyes red-rimmed and watery.

"Harry," the too-gentle tone doesn't suit his godfather. "Harry, d'you... can you understand me?"

He feels ice in the pit of his stomach and gulps rapidly. They think he has brain damage. They think he's gone wrong. _Why would they think he's gone wrong?_ He needs to focus.

"Y-y-_yes,_" he grits his teeth, staring at the man, trying to make him understand. He doesn't know where he is, or how he got there, or what's happened to him, and collecting his thoughts into some sort of order is like cupping running water. He feels like crying. He feels absolutely exhausted, and yet, knows he can't have been awake for more than ten minutes.

"I... haven't... g-gone da-daft... Sirius..." he feels a small sense of relief. The harder he forces himself to focus, the easier it is to push words out. "I... I d-don't know where... w-where we... are. What hap-nd - w-why can't I _think?_"

Explaining exactly how he _can't think _would be impossible, but he's hoping Sirius will understand. And he seems to, shoulders dropping with a heavy exhale, free hand scrubbing across week-old stubble.

"Oh, thank Merlin," he breathes, face at last breaking into a shaky smile. The room around him throbs in and out with Harry's heartbeat.

"Harry," Sirius says slowly, as though what he is about to say will be difficult. "You were very badly hurt. Your brain, it... we thought there may have been some damage - we couldn't be _sure _until you woke up. Your uncle, he..." a shadow of anger crosses his face, darkening his eyes, before he continues. "Madam Pomfrey warned us you might have some... difficulties, when you first woke up, but not to worry too much. Just give yourself some time, and it will get better - you're still healing."

Harry frowns at the news, irritated despite his best efforts. His fingers clench around the bedclothes, praying for the room to stay still so that he can focus.  
Mrs. Weasley clears her throat, asking quietly, "Do you remember the Dementors, Harry?"

A beat of silence follows the question.

"I r'member..." Harry stops, trying his hardest to think clearly. What little memories he does hold are hazy at best, like watching one of Dudley's old video tapes that's been sat out in the sun too long. "I... I rem'ber D-Dementors... uh... Ms. F-Figg?"

He pauses at that particular thought, looking up in confusion.

"Did - did that actually...? Ms. F-Figg - a squib?"

Sirius smiles in obvious amusement. "Yes, Harry. Arabella Figg has been looking out for you on Dumbledore's orders for a few years, now."

Harry tries not to think about that too much, knowing that if he does so he will begin to question just how many aspects of his life have been dictated by the headmaster. Just how many secrets he is not privy to.

"Go on," Sirius prods, gently guiding him back to the conversation. "What else do you remember?"

"I..." he tries to take himself back to the night of the attack, and after a few moments, a slow trickle of memories begin to filter through his foggy consciousness.

"Dudley was... in a b-bad way - I had -" he grits his teeth, forcing the words. "Had to take him h-home..."

His fists are clenched in frustration, nails digging into both palms as he struggles. Try as he might, it is incredibly difficult not to feel embarrassed at the barely-coherent words coming out.

"I'm not s-sure... I... I think..." he stops, Uncle Vernon's face floating to the forefront of his mind. Twisted in shock, and then rage, at the condition in which Harry had brought his son home. Sirius watches in concern as Harry struggles to speak, mouth opening and closing rapidly.

"Harry?" the older man moves forward, resting a hand on his still-closed fist. "Are you alright?"

Harry pauses, gaze firmly on his bedding, not looking up.

"U-Uncle V-Ver...Vernon..." he can feel himself fighting harder to push words out, distracted as more memories begin to form. His uncle had been furious. He has a sudden flash of Aunt Petunia hurrying Dudley into the living room, and the unrecognisable expression on her face as she'd looked back at her nephew. As if she'd known something unpleasant was coming.

Harry's breathing begins to quicken - air coming in sharp bursts, chest burning - but he feels frightening helpless. Sirius is talking, saying something he can't understand; the sounds coming from the other end of a tunnel once more, hollow and windy. He realises very quickly that he does not want to remember what happened after he'd taken his cousin home.

It takes him a few moments to notice that Sirius is saying his name. The man is standing now, both hands on Harry's shoulders, grey eyes searching his face for something. The door behind him swings closed as Mrs. Weasley hurries out.

"Harry - _Harry! _It's okay. Calm down, we don't have to talk anymore - just breathe. Relax - c'mon, Harry, breathe for me, nice and slow..."

He looks up at his godfather, trying his hardest to take the advice, taking in large gulps of air.

"I - I don't... I d-don't want t-to r'member..." he grinds the words out from between his teeth, struggling. "I don't... he... h-he... _so angry..._"

The memories do not trickle, now. Rather, they barrage him; overcoming his senses until his whole body is trembling beneath the blankets, hands shaking violently as Sirius tries to hold them. He is told again to breathe, and thinks that he _is _breathing and why can't his godfather see that?

After a long period, what could have been a lifetime and could have been ten minutes, the bedroom door bursts open and Madam Pomfrey hurries in, robes askew and wand out, followed by Mrs. Weasley. In the midst of his panic, Harry manages to think that wherever he is, he must be in bad shape if the Hogwarts medi-witch is making house calls. She is already murmuring a series of incantations by the time she reaches the bed, normally stern eyes narrowed in concentration.

Sirius has turned to speak quickly with Mrs. Weasley, and Harry's focus lands on the scraggly ends of his hair, and the way they glow, blurring in and out of focus in the weak light filtering through the curtains. The breath wheezes from his lungs and skates through his clenched teeth, and somewhere in the background he registers that the murmuring has stopped. Madam Pomfrey snaps out a sharp, "Sirius, hold him!" and then all at once he feels bowled over with exhaustion.

Sirius' hands move to his shoulders, and as Harry's eyes begin to slip closed, he is lowered backwards so that he is laying down once more.

"There you go, Harry," Sirius says quietly, and he feels the man brushing a few errant strands of hair away from his face. It feels nice - strange, but nice - and he leans into the touch slightly, the hum of sleep drawing him in. "You're safe now..."

As he falls further and further into unconsciousness, snatches of whispered conversation make their way to his ears, but he pays them no mind, succumbing to blissful oblivion.

ooo

The second time Harry awakes, the room is silent, and he swims back into consciousness slowly once more, prying his eyelids apart and blinking the heaviness away. The room, which he recognises this time, (but still cannot fathom _where _he is) is lit by the pale sunlight trickling in through the far window. Though his vision is blurry, he figures it can't be well past dawn.

Harry's hand trembles as he fumbles for his glasses, which he finds placed delicately on the bedside table. He can't think straight, words and memories disconnected and foggy; his body aches, and his head throbs a disconcerting rhythm . He feels nauseous, as though he's been rocking back and forth in the ocean.

He lays quietly for a long time, focusing on the whorls in the corners of the ceiling; the cracks and scratches in the paintwork.

He remembers... bits and pieces, snapshots of the summer so far. _Dementors in Little Whinging_, which sounds like a bad joke or the beginning of a very strange dream, except that he had _been _there and he knows it happened; can still feel the absolute horror and emptiness of their presence. _The helpless, longing feeling that followed him around like a fog afterwards_. Long, empty hours spent laying on Dudley's second mattress, throat dry and body aching for days and days, and the eventual snaking thought he couldn't control any longer; _am I going to die here?_

Harry doesn't let himself linger on those memories, stubbornly forcing his sluggish mind to the ceiling once more, counting the watermarks. He loses track each time, and starts over, blinking slow and heavy, _one, two, three..._

Were he thinking a little more quickly, or a little more rationally, he might be more preoccupied with getting out of the unfamiliar bed, leaving this unfamiliar room and finding out where, exactly, he is. Or perhaps, how he had gotten there. He doesn't think he'd make it to the door, though. Besides, he has a warm, dreamlike memory of Sirius at his bedside that is hard to ignore, and that thought alone gives the whole situation a less threatening aura.

And he is still so very tired...

ooo

_"Harry... Harry, you need to wake up, now... c'mon, open your eyes for me..."_

The voice is nice, low and deep and familiar, and he lets it ebb and flow around him, soaking in it like a hot bath. The voice doesn't signal danger - rather, comfort, and the feeling is so strange, so foreign, he lets it roll over his mind.

_"Harry, c'mon lad, wake up for me... Harry?"_

The voice keeps him warm and safe, cocooned in a blanket of sound, and he fights the consciousness drawing him back. Why can't he just keep this feeling for a little longer? It is such a nice dream, after all...

_"Harry... Remus, he won't wake... Harry? Harry, can you hear me?"_

He frowns, hears a weak moan somewhere that vaguely sounds like himself. More sounds begin to trickle through - somebody's shoes treading heavily across a carpeted floor; a glass being filled with liquid; the low, frantic murmuring of different voices, further away, too far to understand.

_"Wait, wait, I think he's - Harry? Yes, Harry, that's it, I'm here. You're safe, here, just open your eyes..."_

And he does. Unable to fight it any longer, Harry blinks both eyes open. It feels as though his entire body is made of treacle, and it takes a few moments for the shapes around him to make any sense. Somebody has put his glasses on, and he's not sure when that might have happened, but is grateful for it. His godfather's face swims above him, haggard and pale; worried eyes too large in front of his own, and he sees the man breathe out thickly in relief.

"Harry, oh - thank Merlin," Sirius grins, all teeth and days of stubble, and Harry squints at him, willing him to _stay still _for just a moment so he can get his bearings. Sirius smile fades quickly. "Harry?"

"Mmm?" is about all the sound he can muster. His throat burns with the effort, and he thinks that's unusually realistic for a dream, isn't it?

"Mm'I dream'n?" he manages, forcing his mouth around the words and using just about all the strength he has to lift his right hand towards Sirius' face. "What y... you d'n here?"

Sirius grins down at him, pushing a length of messy hair out of his eyes. He looks thin and worn down. Harry can feel his leg through the blankets, and realises he is sitting on Harry's bed. It feels... strange. Parental, in a way he hasn't dared to think about for years.

"Well this is my house, so I think I have a right to be here," Sirius says, and the words take a moment to assemble themselves properly within Harry's brain. In that time, Sirius takes the hand he'd been reaching out, squeezing it in his own.

"You've given everybody quite a scare, Harry," comes another voice from behind Sirius, and he would focus on that, but can only handle one thing at a time. At the moment, his godfather's words are still mulling around, as if he could reach out and touch them.

"Y'r... ho... house?" Harry forces out, confused. Sirius has stopped wavering back and forth, which is nice, he thinks, and he feels awareness more strongly now.

Turning his head, Harry takes in the same unfamiliar room once more, and the person standing behind Sirius comes into clearer focus. "Pr'fess'r Lupin?"

Remus smiles, tired eyes crinkling in the corners, and places a hand on Sirius' shoulder.

"Hello, Harry," he says quietly, looking at him with a peculiar expression. "It's good to see you finally awake - how are you feeling?"

Harry looks between the two of them in confusion, but barely manages to drag his eyes away from Sirius. He can't contain the nagging, whispering fear that if he looks away, Sirius will disappear, and he'll wake up once more in Dudley's second bedroom, counting down the days until his return to Hogwarts; bracing himself against the headboard so as not to jar his painful ribs, or the throbbing in his head.

"How...?" he coughs, and Remus quickly turns away, returning with a glass of water, which he holds to Harry's lips. He drinks desperately, the water cooling his throat and waking him up a little more. The professor takes the glass away when he stops drinking, and Harry nods in thanks, feeling slightly more alert, but not willing to move himself from the pillows behind him just yet.

"What ha... happened?" he manages, at last. "How... h-how long h've I...?"

Sirius studies him, brows pinched together, and exhales slowly, looking for all the world like he'd rather not answer.

"Harry..." he begins, slanting his gaze to Remus briefly before looking back. "You've been here for almost a week, now. You've been very ill - we... Madam Pomfrey has been monitoring your progress. I - that is, we sent a team to retrieve you, from the Dursleys, to bring you here."

Harry squints up at him, head throbbing with the effort, and while his entire body is protesting, begging him to lay back down and go back to sleep, he wants answers. He fights through the fatigue, formulating words slowly before attempting to sound them out.

"B-but... What happen'? Why 'm I... 'sleep fo' so long?"

Remus looks at Sirius, who is chewing on his thumbnail absently, avoiding the question.

"Sir's?" he is growing frustrated; his voice is scratchy and worn thin, and it feels as though his tongue has forgotten how to move around the different syllables he needs.

Sirius leans forward slightly, late-afternoon sunlight diffusing through his dark hair, giving the scene an ethereal quality that makes Harry wonder if he isn't still dreaming after all.

"I almost lost you," Sirius whispers, sounding hoarse and on the verge of tears. It is then, finally, that Harry manages to pinpoint exactly what it is that looks so different about his godfather. The look in Sirius' eyes is not wild, or burning, or angry, or any of the emotions he has come to associate with the man. It's fear.

ooo


	2. Interlude: Sirius

**A/N:  
**_This is only a short interlude, while I try to hunt my inspiration down again.  
__I am very sorry for the delay - real life, blah, blah,  
but thank you all for your lovely reviews on the first chapter, they do genuinely make my day!  
**More importantly:  
**The slight vagueness is deliberate, I promise - in the next (real) chapter everything will be discussed and clear, for Harry and you lovely readers.  
_

ooo

At Harry's bedside, Sirius is awkward and out of place; grasping for the right words, the right movements.

He feels like he's been left behind, struggling to catch up on the years of neglect that have led to this. In Azkaban, time had been warped and stretched, tilting forwards and backwards so that he could never be sure if a year or a day had passed. He'd been so consumed by memories - by _JamesandLilyandHarryandRemus_ haunting his dreams and his thoughts - that he hadn't been able to think about what he'd find on the outside.

Or, perhaps more importantly, how he would cope.

Just below Harry's right ear is a thin, silvery-white scar. Sirius finds it while washing the boy's face during his third day at Headquarters, and wonders how it got there.

Not long after, he finds another etched into Harry's palm, faint and so old it has nearly disappeared. Then another, what looks like an old burn, inside the elbow of his left arm. More and more, during the time Harry lays still and quiet, Sirius begins to take note of these small, barely-there markings, and feels his insides turn to water. They are letters, spelling out fourteen years of _**failure**_. Spelling out all the many, many ways he has let Harry down.

He wonders if anybody else has found these marks; the untold story playing out across his godson's skin. He wonders if anybody else has felt the sharp stab of guilt directly in their solar plexus, or the pang of responsibility, quite as deeply.

Most of all, as he sits watching his godson, Sirius wonders about James.

Too many times he drops his head into his hands, inhales deeply, and thinks, _James would know what to do. _Too many times he scuffs shaky fingers through hair he hasn't bothered combing, and thinks, _James would know what to say. _

If James were here, still alive and breathing and cracking the same, lopsided grin Sirius had - before now - grown used to seeing on Harry, _he_ would not be a shaking, hovering wreck. James would be level-headed and calm, soothing his child each time he whimpered or trembled. James would have listened to Molly Weasley if she'd suggested he get some sleep, or a shower - because unlike Sirius, James is not the kind of person to brush off somebody else's advice so easily.

_Was. _

_Was _not the kind of person to brush off somebody else's advice so easily.

ooo

It is Remus who manages to finally break through the thick barrier of grief and self-doubt Sirius has managed to wrap around himself. The younger wizard enters the guest bedroom early one morning, quietly but determinedly drags him bodily downstairs, and firmly sits him down at one end of the house's long dining table.

"Sirius," he says finally, turning only to boil water, pulling out two clean mugs. "You cannot continue like this."

Remus stares resolutely, leaning back against the kitchen counter, until Sirius finally looks up. Remus has the pinched, pale look about him that says it hasn't been long since the last full moon, and guilt of a different kind swoops low and heavy in Sirius' stomach. He hadn't even noticed Remus' monthly disappearance.

"Moony, I - " he starts, but the younger man holds up a hand to stop him.

"Never mind that," he says, "We need to talk about you - and Harry, of course. It is _abundantly_ clear that you've worn yourself well beyond breaking point, and the question is _why._"

Sirius gapes at him, unable to follow.

"I - what? What on earth d'you mean, _why_? Have you _seen_ - "

"Yes, I have seen Harry," Remus interrupts calmly. "I am well aware of his condition. What I'm _also _well aware of is Molly's capability in dealing with ill children - not to mention Poppy and Dumbledore checking in on his progress every day."

"If you've got a point," Sirius says, frowning, "Kindly make your way to it."

Remus sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and reaching for the canister beside the kettle. He finishes making the tea and brings both mugs to the table, settling himself in the chair opposite Sirius.

"Padfoot," he begins, the familiar nickname softening his tone. "There are other people in this house who I'm sure wouldn't mind watching Harry while you get some rest, or Merlin forbid, take fifteen minutes to _bathe _yourself. Sitting in that room every minute of every day is achieving nothing that couldn't be accomplished with a clearer head."

The sun is rising slowly over Remus' shoulder, the kitchen light changing from grey to blue to a very pale pink. Order members will begin filtering through within the next hour or so. Soon, Molly will be awake, pottering around the kitchen in her dressing gown to cook breakfast for anybody hungry enough. Soon, the quiet of the house will be overcome by overnight reports and heavy boots; the nervous din of more bad news.

Sirius blows on his tea, letting the mug warm his trembling fingers. He thinks about Harry's parents, again, as Remus murmurs quietly into the dawn, gently goading him into talking. After a long while, Sirius realises he is evading all of his friends questions.

He takes a breath, feels it settle deep within his lungs, exhales.

"James would be handling this much better," he admits finally, focusing intently on the condensation marks on the table. "James would know what Harry's going to need when he wakes up - James would have been attentive enough, before now, to _notice _everything that boy's been hiding from us, so that things would never have reached this point!"

He feels, rather than hears, Remus' sharp intake of breath; the way his frustratingly well-organised brain tries to process the words.

They don't discuss their missing friends, sidestepping those particular painful memories with every conversation since Sirius' return. They see enough of Lily's morals in each of Harry's letters, and James' talent for attracting bad luck in every story he tells. They see James' smile and Lily's teeth whenever the teenager speaks; their combined temperament if ever Harry witnesses a perceived injustice. This had been enough, for over a year, now.

It is a long time before Remus responds, and when he does the words are like a sucker-punch, right in the hollow pit of his stomach.

"James isn't here, Sirius," he says quietly, "But _you _are. We all have our own crosses to bear when it comes to Harry, and our blindness... but he needs_ you_ right now - not a replacement for his father. That child looks to you as if you hung the moon if you so much as _breathe_ around him, and I think it's time you realised that."

Remus takes a breath, pausing so that Sirius takes a moment to notice his watery eyes.

"You will never replace James, Padfoot - not in your memory, nor in Harry's heart. It would be foolish to even _try..._ But, what you seem to forget is that Harry has never asked you to. He doesn't need a stand-in, he simply needs you."

ooo


End file.
